Sherlock at St Stephen's
by imnemocomeandfindme
Summary: This is about Sherlock, Watson and Lestrade solving a case at a school. I wrote it a few months ago, but thought I'd put it up for the end bit people might enjoy...it was mostly written to make people that knew the teachers in it laugh, so it might not be any good from an outsiders perspective! Please review to make me happy and make it better, or ask for explanations!


**Author's Note:**

**This is the first real fanfiction I wrote. Ever. It was for the school magazine, so it has lots of well known teachers in it with their catchphrases etc in to make it funny for my fellow students, but if anyone wants anything explaining just leave a comment and I can try to reply! I've changed things that can easily identify my school, so sorry, but there is no real St Stephen's, as far as I know...**

**Okay... Enjoy and Review! xx**

* * *

The whole business had started with that one text from the master criminal, James Moriarty. We never could have guessed where it led, but sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. I shall begin on the morning it all started...

I wandered into the kitchen of 221B in a dressing gown with my hair still wet from the shower. It was 8.00 in the morning on a Sunday, and already Sherlock was dressed in his usual suit and bending over a microscope. He looked up and frowned at me as I entered.

"John, you're dripping all over the floor. It's dangerous; one of us could slip and fall."

"What? And all the mad stuff you drag us into and do around the house isn't? What about heads in the fridge? And bringing weapons and criminals in here! You shot the wall because you were bored!"

Sherlock smiled to himself, "The wall had it coming."

I left then, to get a towel, because I couldn't have an argument with Sherlock that early in the day. He always won and was maddeningly superior for hours after.

By the time I returned Sherlock was putting on his coat and scarf.

"John, we've had a text." I didn't need to ask who it was from. "There's going to be an incident at St Stephen's School, we need to go there immediately."

We rushed out of the door and to the station.

Presently, we were there, and after a short walk arrived in front of one of the boarding houses. Sherlock had explained that he had been sent a message telling him that there would be a series of cases waiting for us there, with clues to each one, and that if they weren't all solved by the evening, a hidden bomb would go off, somewhere in the school. The first clue we had been sent was of a room. It was not much to go on, with wood-panelled walls with names carved into them, and some large wooden doors, with paintings of impressive-looking old men hanging high on the walls. Not being familiar with the school, we had stopped off at the Headmaster's office to explain the case and ask if he recognised the picture. "I can't be sure, but I think that it could have been taken from inside the Old Classroom, very close to here actually...". He smiled and he and Sherlock exchanged respectful looks. We set off to find it.

By the time we found the room, Lestrade had arrived and was standing outside, with a map to the grounds. He was looking confused, as usual.

"What's going on Sherlock? You told me to come at once and here I am, and I've had a look in there and it's the same room as in the picture, but I can't see anything odd..."

"My, my, what a brilliant impression you do, Lestrade," said my companion, as he pushed open the door behind the inspector.

"Brilliant impression of what?" asked Lestrade. We followed our companion into the old room, to see him feeling along the skirting board.

"Brilliant impression of an idiot. Look here: a section of the board has been taken out and replaced recently. If I just lever it out, like this...There!"

What my friend had revealed was a glass jar, and filling it was a mixture of wood shavings and paint. My confusion must have been obvious, as Sherlock explained his deduction. "This is obviously referring to the design schools: nowhere else would one find wood dust and paint together."

As we walked along the close, Sherlock handed me a note he had found in the jar amongst the shavings. It read, "Well done on cracking the first clue. Only four more to go. Don't forget, you have until 9pm before things get explosive. J.M.".

Sherlock made Lestrade wait outside as we entered the workshop - "your face is too stupid; it's distracting" - and quickly made up a story to a very enthusiastic Australian teacher on a scooter (who was only too happy to help) that we were safety inspectors and needed to check the storeroom. Students milled around us as we made our way through the classroom to the back, where, almost instantly, we discovered a photo of a high vaulted ceiling. On the back was written, "Which way you ought to go depends on where you want to get to ... J.M.".

Sherlock frowned. "What does that mean? That's not a proper clue, that's just a phrase!"

I sighed at my friend's lack of general knowledge, which he had so often declared useless. "It's from _Alice In Wonderland_, Sherlock, the book, by Lewis Carroll!" I took my phone out and searched Lewis Carroll. "Sherlock! He visited the school while he was alive and made a donation! He has a commemorative plinth for it in the Chapel! That must be the ceiling..."

On reaching the chapel, we had help from the School's reverend to find Carroll's marker. A search of the surrounding pews immediately turned up a wooden box, which the 'Rev' had located with a peculiar-looking stick. Upon opening it, we found broken-off piano keys, and, upon our Christian friend's directions, headed towards the music schools to look for a broken piano.

When we arrived, it was to find three men in the music office, all loudly arguing. One had dark hair and was shouting, "But I thought that St Stephen's School loved to sing!", and the other two were shorter and with paler hair, one with glasses and a calm voice, and the other quietly solemn. It emerged that a grand piano in the Concert Hall had been smashed about the night before, and the director of music and one of the two piano teachers had only just found out.

After establishing that none of the teachers knew who had done it, and had seen nothing more unusual than some students practising last night, we politely declined tea before asking to be taken to the hall in question. Emerging from a side door of the music schools, we found a fuming Lestrade pacing outside.

"Where did you two run off to? I was waiting for ages and had to be let in through some gallery place to ask where you had gone. And then I had to wait out here because I don't know the blasted passcode!"

"Sorry, Lestrade," said Sherlock with a smile that said he wasn't, "we had to come here. We're in a hurry and you are rather slowing us down."

With Lestrade fuming, the music teacher entered the code and we entered the magnificent concert hall. Leaping up the steps, it took Sherlock mere seconds this time to see something out of the ordinary under the lid of the ruined piano. Out of the splintered wreckage he pulled a coffee mug with the St Stephen's School logo on one side and a photo of the White House on the other. Sherlock screwed up his face in concentration, something I rarely see him do.

"I don't understand, Watson, it doesn't make sense! What can the connection between an English boarding school and the American president's house possibly be?" He looked askance at the coffee mug.

"Excuse me," said the music teacher, "but I might have an idea. Could it be the school staff room? We all have coffee there and it's a big white building..."

Sherlock was up and running before we could process what the teacher had said, his black coat flapping behind him as he sped up the road. I jogged behind him, conscious of the approaching dusk. We only had an hour or so until Moriarty's 9pm deadline, when a bomb would go off somewhere, possibly the very place we were heading to.

As soon as I entered the staff room, I saw Sherlock deep in conversation across the room, but, before I could reach him, I was intercepted by a wiry, grey-haired man.

"What's going on, man?"

"I'm so sorry, but Sherlock hasn't told me his plans..."

The teacher looked irritated at my ignorance. As I pushed past him to reach Sherlock, I thought I heard him muttering "He should know this, what a schoolboy error."

Arriving at Sherlock's side, I observed that he was talking to a dark-haired man with a red tie, and an excited-looking gentleman with frizzy grey hair and red trousers. "So you're sure that the Craneham centre whale painting will remain untouched?" the dark-haired man said.

"Of course they won't touch the whale! Who cares about it anyway with such splendid excitingness going on! Oh hell's teeth, this is fun!"

My friend looked amused at the comments of the staff. "I can assure you, sir, that the whale is in no danger. I repeat, _the whale is in no danger_. I think that we are very close to the pressing matter of apprehending the notorious criminal, Moriarty."

At these words, the iPhone from A Study in Pink Moriarty used to contact us went off in my pocket. Sherlock glanced over my shoulder as we read the text more carefully. It read: 'Well done, boys. Finally cracked the last clue. I'm having a chat with the Headmaster in his office now, but I'll be leaving soon before things get exciting. I expect I'll see you soon! J.M.'.

As I turned to my friend, expecting to see the glowing bright light of adventure in his eyes once more, I saw, instead, that he was white as a sheet. Looking dazed, he grabbed me by the sleeve, and, after shouting at Lestrade to get back-up to the Head's office immediately, pulled me from the room with such haste I almost fell over.

"Hell's teeth," said the excited-looking gentleman with frizzy grey hair and red trousers.

Sherlock was running at top speed. "Watson, there is something I have never told anyone, for it is a matter of highest national security, but I feel you must know this before we can go any further. My brother, Mycroft, officially retired in 2001, but he needed some project to keep him occupied, somewhere no-one would suspect. He changed his name and appearance and went where no-one would think to look for him. He still has knowledge about current cases and would be priceless to Britain's enemies, but they never found him. But if Moriarty has found out, if he knows..."

I panted after him as we rushed through a large gate and along the path to the Headmaster's Office. "What are you trying to tell me, Sherlock? I only saw your brother a few times a long time ago and then only ever for a couple of moments at a time!"

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but the name my brother uses now, the identity that has kept him safe for so many years, is … the headmaster of St Stephen's." Sherlock's gaze held mine as the enormity of the revelation dawned on me.

My mouth fell open. No wonder the Headmaster had seemed so familiar with Sherlock! I had assumed it was a connection between men of intellect, but it had obviously been something more. How could I have been so stupid?

We sprinted up the staircase into the office we had been in only that morning, and sure enough, James Moriarty we sitting on the edge of the desk, and behind him was the headmaster, slumped over in his chair with his eyes closed. Without thinking, I rushed forwards and fumbled for Mycroft's wrist, praying for a pulse, as Sherlock stared. It was fainter than one would hope, but definitely there. I breathed a sigh of relief, "He's fine Sherlock, just unconscious." As my friend turned to deal with Moriarty, I noticed tick silver handcuffs around Mycroft's hands and ankles, binding him to the heavy chair.

"Why are you here? What are you doing to this school Moriarty?" my friend said, with fire blazing in his eyes.

"It's a game Sherlock, and you played surprisingly well. As for your brother there, I thought it was time to sell his secret on, so he'll have to leave soon. I'm sure it won't be too hard to pretend he's going to work in another school in London or something...St Stephen's will find a new head soon enough."

Sherlock started forward as if to push Moriarty over, but then faltered, and seemed to think better of it. "You still didn't answer my question," he said instead, "why does the school have to suffer for your entertainment?"

"Oh Sherlock, this was all for your entertainment, the rest is just collateral damage. I'm sorry though Sherlock, but I really must go, there's only two minutes until things kick off, and let's just say that I don't want to be here when they do; don't want to ruin this suit you know, it's Westwood. Have fun!" Moriarty turned leisurely and began to walk away down the steps.

"Sherlock we need to go after him, he has to be stopped!" He wasn't listening though, he was running around the room, inspecting everything he passed.

"John, you need to see what you can do to get Mycroft out of here, I need to find and diffuse the bomb; it must be here somewhere..." He started muttering to himself as I turned to the headmaster. A large welt on his right temple showed why he was unconscious. After tugging on the chains that bound him I gave it up as a lost cause and decided to help Sherlock search. Pulling out the desk drawers quickly revealed the devise, blinking with red lights, with wires everywhere, it was counting down...60...59...58...57...

"Sherlock, it's here! Here!"

In a flash he was there, and began running his fingers along the wires. 48 seconds to go, and never slowing down. This could really be it, if the bomb went off it would blow this whole building to pieces and all the students and staff with it!

Sherlock was pulling something metallic out of his pocket, of course, wire cutters! 39 seconds.

I heard a car pull up outside, and rushed to the window. I could see the greying head of Lestrade emerging from the driver's side, and along the close a dozen police cars were crawling along, but they were too late! 30 seconds.

Sherlock pulled a single wire out from the tangle and cut it. The counter cut straight to 10 seconds, and 9...

Without thinking, with all of my training forgotten, I threw myself forward and wrenched all the wires I could hold from their moorings and squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the worst.


End file.
